


To Trust, to Hold, to Care

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Songfic, absinthe is the strongest of stuff you can drink right, angels don't fly on planes they use their own wings like God intended, crowley is an anxious baby, i'm SOFT, listen this is mushy fluff to apologize for the angst i posted yesterday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 16:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Love writes a letter and sends it to Hate:"My vacation's ending, I'm coming home lateThe weather was fine and the ocean was greatAnd I can't wait to see you again"Mushy fluff set to the tune of The Ballad of Love and Hate by the Avett Brothers.





	To Trust, to Hold, to Care

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for posting awfully hurtful angst yesterday, please accept this gift of apology. 
> 
> I won't even lie, this is largely inspired by the experience I had helping my younger cousin record her own version of this song when I was visiting her portion of our family. She was pretty nervous but she did phenomenally. It was probably one of the most vulnerable experiences of my life and I wasn't even the one on the line. I'm Soft. 
> 
> Then I saw a gifset on tumblr with this song and went "welp, this is Ineffable now." 
> 
> Enjoy! Leave a comment, feed my soul!

Aziraphale had been gone for five days. 

The world had ended-but-not a full month ago, and about two weeks in, Aziraphale had taken the Great Leap and kissed Crowley. 

Not that it had been six thousand years in the making, or anything like that. 

And truly, they’d only kissed. Well. They’d also confessed just how long they’d each wanted to do that, and laughed about their self-contained obliviousness, and promised they would work on this particular part of life together. 

It wasn’t fireworks. It was much quieter. It was steady and kind, it was a promise, it was love in it’s purest form. 

That being said, they were still an angel and a demon, and without his ballast Crowley could become a little more than tetchy. 

His ballast had been gone for five days, on some trip to find some books that had reappeared from the Library of Alexandria. Adam Young, the child-antichrist, had gifted an angel of the Lord a _scavenger hunt._

Crowley rolled his eyes at the thought. He picked up the stack of letters from his mailbox, tossing several envelopes of junk into the trash by the wall of boxes immediately. One particular letter caught his eye— golden lettering, barely visible for those who didn’t know how to read it. 

Crowley smiled to himself and wandered towards his flat. (He would not have admitted smiling to anyone who heard this story later, but he smiled nonetheless.) 

He sat on his couch, the rest of the mail forgotten, and opened the envelope. The letter had obviously been written with a quill, the words dotted with drops of ink. Aziraphale had been too excited to write carefully, and Crowley felt some welling of fondness in his belly. 

_“My vacation is ending, dear, I’ve managed to recover a few books! I should be home soon, though I’ll likely be home late. I do apologize for the wait; the weather has been so lovely, and the ocean so calming and beautiful._

_I cannot wait to see you._

_Sending all my love, dearest,_

_Aziraphale.”_

Crowley tossed the letter aside in a manner that any observer would have thought careless. 

It landed atop a stack of other letters, floating down softly. 

Crowley was still struggling with this whole thing. He wanted to lavish praise on the angel, thank him for coming home, welcome him with kisses and cocoa until the daft being giggled him away. But old habits die hard. 

He shook away the thought of telling Aziraphale that he hadn’t even noticed he was gone. Instead, he wrote a quick “I’ve got a few errands to run, I’ll see you if you stop by. Whatever.”

The demon also signed it with perhaps an extra loop or two of his snakelike signature. If one looked closely, they might find a heart. 

If they squinted. 

As he walked out of his flat, ignoring the steadily growing pile of letters, Aziraphale began his flight. Crowley’s letter would find him somewhere along the flight. But as he gripped his suitcase with a grin, pointing himself towards London, he felt his heart kick up a song. 

He was going home, he was going to see his demon, and the world could not be more beautiful. It could not be more right. The ocean was bluer than blue should be as he glided low over it; the trees he skated were luscious and soft to the touch. 

Aziraphale radiated love. This surprised no one— but it also meant it was impossible for him to truly hide. He felt love, and couldn’t help feeding into other people feeling love, and no having finally admitted he was in love, he was hard to ignore. Even to humans. 

He practically left a trail of love after him, and humans noticed, smiled at their friends more as he passed through. He might have been responsible for a love confession or two. Who’s really counting? 

As the angel flew, the demon walked. Always poised, always confident, he made his way along the street towards his beloved Bentley. He kept his countenance serious, let no hint of his true feelings through. He kept track of those who passed him by— never know when you’ll see someone again, and London was really quite small in the Grand Scheme of Things. 

He stepped into the Bentley and headed out. 

Not that he really had errands to do, but he didn’t think he could actually be at home when Aziraphale arrived there. He’d have no impulse control.

A few hours later saw Aziraphale land in Soho. He looked to his bookshop, smiling, and bounced the suitcase full of books in his hand. The street around him buzzed happily despite the incredibly early hour (or late one, depending on who you asked); Aziraphale brought this energy with him. He gave the street the feeling of safety, of vulnerability in a place where it was encouraged. He gave Soho the feeling of a baby cradled in their mother’s arms: trusting, held safely, cared for. 

He would come back later, but he had someone else to give that feeling to. 

Crowley sat on the roof of the Bentley, sprawled as he always was, parked next to a cliff that overlooked the sea. The countryside was beautiful at this time of night (or morning, depending on who you asked). He ignored the sky, half-scared that if he looked to it, he’d see Aziraphale gliding down towards him. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his angel. He did.

That terrified him. The idea of love requited was absolutely terrifying. 

He did alright with that, most days. When he had Aziraphale next to him, it wasn’t as scary, because Aziraphale was safe and warm and all good things. 

He was still terrified that the angel would change his mind. But when Aziraphale was there, he could reach for reassurance. 

Crowley was, secretly, terrified that one day Aziraphale would just leave. He would go on an adventure without Crowley, decide Crowley wasn’t really what he wanted. He would leave the demon alone for eternity. 

With that thought, Crowley downed the last of the absinthe in his bottle. It was an old bottle, a good bottle. 

He tried to make it look lazy and effortless. No one watched him do it, but they would have told you he did not succeed in making it look lazy and effortless. 

He caught sight of the time on his watch and cursed (it took him three tries to get “shit” to sound like an actual word), then sobered up. Shaking off the awful taste of that particular effort, he got in the Bentley and blasted the radio. 

Aziraphale arrived at Crowley’s flat after a perfectly lovely taxi drive with a bright young driver. The man had smiled the entire time, his shoulders lightening as Aziraphale climbed in. “Where can I take ya?” he’d asked genially. 

Aziraphale gave him the address, smiled, and asked if the young man was a student. 

They discussed the virtues and faults of Maslow and Piaget. Then they talked about their favorite beach weather. Then they talked about the perfect rainy day. 

When they arrived in front of Crowley’s building, the young driver seemed terribly sad. Aziraphale smiled kindly, tipped him generously, and wished him “the _best_ dreams of whatever you like most.” 

Aziraphale entered the stygian building, taking the gilded elevator to Crowley’s top floor. He let himself in and smiled at the mess. 

After checking in on the plants, he tidied up the stack of letters and placed them on Crowley’s desk (he did not notice his own handwriting), and wandered to the kitchen to make himself some cocoa. 

As he does this, Crowley screamed around the corner, still going dangerously fast, tire skipping over the sidewalk. Despite the absence of absinthe in his veins anymore, he felt a bit drunk. A two hour drive had taken him thirty-five minutes, and the G forces on his body were a bit off-putting. The sudden stop-and-park did not help. He rushed into the building, barely remembering to lock the Bentley. 

He knew Aziraphale would call him reckless. He knew it would have terrified the angel to know how fast he’d been driving. 

So he just wouldn’t tell him. 

He burst through the door to his own flat, finding it oddly neater than he’d left it. He swallowed. Aziraphale must have already arrived. 

He passed Aziraphale’s suitcase, left next to his collection of plants, and tried to strut to the kitchen.

He glimpsed the clock as he passed through, following the scent of cocoa and petrichor. 2:55 am.

Which didn’t make sense, because he’d left the cliff at 2:50 am, and it had taken him 35 minutes. So his kitchen clock was running slow— that would explain Aziraphale’s frustration with him at the beginning of last week. 

He found Aziraphale sitting on Crowley’s couch, legs tucked up under a blanket, book open on his lap. In his right hand, he held a still-steaming mug of cocoa. His left hand rested against the book, but Crowley could see the outline of the iPhone he’d given Aziraphale two and a half weeks ago. The red case stood out against the olive green of the blanket.

Crowley could see the subtle signs of anxiety, though. Aziraphale was worrying the pages of his book. His brows were closer together than usual, his expression closer to a frown than a smile. He kept putting down his cocoa and picking it back up. 

Crowley sighed. He’d worried the daft angel by being out. He should’ve just waited for Aziraphale to arrive, faced his fears. 

He tried to lean into the doorway smoothly, but tripped over his own foot, landing against the door with an “oof.” 

Aziraphale looked up and relief washed over his face. He set the book aside and smiled brightly.

Crowley hung his head and stared downward, wishing he could disappear through the floor. “Love,” he started, ignoring the happy tap of Aziraphale’s foot at the new pet name, “I’m sorry.”

He was met with silence, and he looked up. Aziraphale’s head was tilted to the side and his arms were out, beckoning Crowley forward. 

The demon bolted to his side immediately, letting Aziraphale wrap him in a hug before laying him gently over his lap. “What for?” he chuckled, still vaguely confused. 

Crowley nearly felt ashamed, but he felt a wave of love wash over him, closing his eyes. He tapped his watch instead of speaking. 

Aziraphale hummed in understanding, leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m yours and that’s it,” he said against Crowley’s skin, smiling as he added, “whatever.” 

Crowley scoffed, but reached up as Aziraphale straightened to bury his long fingers in the hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale sighed happily. Crowley realized he didn’t have his sunglasses on— hadn’t since he’d gotten home. 

“I should not have been gone for so long,” Aziraphale huffed. _“I missed you”_ went unspoken. 

Crowley swallowed against the burning in his throat, reached for Aziraphale’s left hand with his right, brought their hands to rest on his chest. After a few moments, he realized his index finger had been tracing over Aziraphale’s ring finger, and he went to pull away in embarrassment. 

Aziraphale caught his hand, brought it to his own chest, placed a kiss to his knuckles. “Dear boy.”

“I’m yours,” he murmured against Crowley’s skin, “and that’s it, forever.” 

Crowley looked up at him, seeking an answer. A promise, perhaps. 

Aziraphale smiled tenderly. “You’re mine,” he answered, promised, “and that’s it, forever.”


End file.
